


Winter in London

by wearitcounts (Sher_locked_up)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic, Fix-It, Fluff, His Last Vow fix-it, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Post-His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:00:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sher_locked_up/pseuds/wearitcounts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He supposes, in retrospect, it was always going to end up like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter in London

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scullyseviltwin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [伦敦下雪了](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1197282) by [AnnDa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnDa/pseuds/AnnDa)



They were together nearly two years before Sherlock had to leave the first time. Well, he says _together_.

They were together a little more than one year before Sherlock had to leave the second time.

He came back rather quickly that time, mind.

It’s been twelve months and twenty-six days they’ve been together _this_ time, and frankly, it would take a lot more than a measly little bullet in his gut or jumping off one tiny hospital roof to convince Sherlock to leave John again.

He supposes, in retrospect, it was always going to end up like this. If neither of them died along the way, he mentally amends, recognising the not-improbability of such an event. He himself died twice, more or less. Being addicted to drugs and crime, puzzles and danger, offers many occupational hazards.

But as Sherlock presses the tip of his nose into the soft bit of skin just behind John’s ear, tightening his arms around John’s chest and flexing his hips to unconsciously grind his pelvis against John’s arse, a smile he can’t quite control spreads across his lips and he pushes it into John’s skin, inhales deeply through both mouth and nose and holds John’s scent against his tongue, pulls it down his throat and into his chest, feels his heart swell so large he’s sure the jut of it will shove John hard into waking.

Against what Sherlock believes must be immeasurable odds, John sleeps on.

It’s about then, as Sherlock marvels at John’s ability to sleep through the miraculous, he notices through a sliver of pale grey light between the curtains of his bedroom window that outside it’s snowing.

It’s January and it’s snowing and it’s cold everywhere in the flat except the space between and around their bodies, and John is dreaming of things Sherlock can’t deduce, Sherlock can’t do anything but shut his eyes hard against the light and the snow and the revelation that is John Watson, naked and asleep in his arms, warm and golden and inarguably his, as much now as he’s always been.

Only now, Sherlock’s allowed to _have_ him.

The snow is coming down in the very small and sparse sort of flakes that signify how much more there is to come, and Sherlock’s grateful for it because John will sleep awhile longer, and when he wakes, there will be a lovely sparkling white sheen all over everything. They’ll make a fire and have tea and toast, and maybe later invite Mrs. Hudson up for lunch, and Sherlock will play something he’s been composing that came to him in the odd hours of solitude he’s had between the moment John told Sherlock that he loved him and now, the moment they’re lying together in Sherlock’s bed, slotted up against one another like spoons in a drawer. It’s horribly clichéd but Sherlock can’t be arsed to care because now he has John, he finally _has_ him, and this time there doesn’t appear to be anything in the way. Sherlock can tell by the feeling of all of John’s skin against his skin, the smell of John’s hair tickling his nose, the soft huffs of breath John’s exhaling as he still sleeps on, oblivious to the snow that’s falling outside slowly, but steadily more.

Sherlock burrows back down a little, wraps himself around John a bit tighter, rests his cheek against the back of John’s skull and tucks a cold foot between John’s calves. Within the hour, they’ll wake. They’ll wake, John will smile sleepily and say, “Hello, you,” Sherlock will smile back and be unable to stop himself from proving what he knows to be true with his hands and his mouth and his tongue, and, eventually, John will notice that it’s snowing.

There will be tea and toast, and violin, and Mrs. Hudson fussing, and the rest of it. Cases and murder and dust and the Yard. And love, and sex, Sherlock realises with a little grin. Love and sex, and London, covered in snow.


End file.
